


The Perils of Firemen and the Food Network

by shireness



Series: The Perils of Firemen and the Food Network [1]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Bad Cooking, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-20
Updated: 2018-04-20
Packaged: 2019-04-25 10:54:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14377164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shireness/pseuds/shireness
Summary: Emma Swan is not a cook. But maybe, with the help of her upstairs neighbor, she could be - if her feelings don't get in the way.





	The Perils of Firemen and the Food Network

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Aerica_Menai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aerica_Menai/gifts).



> This work was created as a gift for my CS Fic Formal match, @aerica13, who told me that some of the things she likes in a fic are the Emma & Elsa friendship and Emma and food. I've had such a lovely time chatting with you and this was very fun to write - I hope you like it!
> 
> Rated T for language.

Emma Swan is not a cook.

It’s not for lack of trying. When she had first come to live with Granny and Ruby Lucas as a sophomore in high school, the kind diner owner had tried to teach her how to make a few basics as a bonding exercise, and had failed dismally. Well, maybe not dismally - the bonding had certainly worked - but Emma has a unique skill when it comes to cooking that results in her efforts being simultaneously burnt and raw. It’s a talent, really. Granny still tries every so often when she finds a new recipe she thinks just might be easy enough that even Emma can handle, but it’s usually not successful. Emma can handle spaghetti from a jar, pancakes from a box, grilled cheese, and that’s about it. It’s enough to keep her fed and is at least a small amount of variety.

Emma knows this about herself. She’s accepted it. She’s perfectly fine eating a bunch of grilled cheeses, actually. If she wants variety, she can walk down to the diner and Granny will fix her up with something.

But then Elsa just _has_ to go and get the Food Network.

Okay, it’s not specifically the Food Network. It’s an entire cable package. But Elsa had just gotten a raise and Emma had tracked down that extra skeevy guy wanted for some sort of financial crime and really, both women had gotten tired of the ten basic stations on the TV and their selection of programming that ranged from bland to predictable to frankly awful. So they splurged and signed up for a cable package. No HBO yet, but they’ll get there.

And the new selection is _great_. Elsa becomes addicted to the classic movies channel, and Emma does a lot of mindless browsing while tracking down her skips on her laptop.

That’s how she stumbles across the Food Network.

It’s not like she’s not aware such a thing exists - she has the internet and Mary Margaret, thank you very much. But Emma had never really gotten the point of the whole thing. What, you sit on your couch and watch other people cook? She can visit Granny if she wants to do that, and will get the amazing smells to boot. But she gives it a shot one day when there’s nothing else on (and by the way, how can there be nearly a hundred channels and nothing to watch? Even HGTV was just showing House Hunters episodes she had already seen), settling in to watch some sort of ridiculous cooking competition show.

And she’s _hooked_.

She’s still not a huge fan of the cooking demonstrations - doesn’t quite hold her attention, and the pretentious way that one lady pronounces pastas just grates on Emma’s nerves - but she _loves_ the cooking competition shows - the ticking clock, the crazy challenges, the high demands and obscure ingredients. It all adds a level of tension and drama that’s absolutely _addicting_.

The real problem with these shows, unfortunately, is the confidence level. If these contestants can cook a perfect dish one-handed with gardening tools and green eggs, there’s no reason that Emma shouldn’t be able to cook a damn chicken breast with chicken and an actual pan. Not to mention, there’s something about watching trained chefs that just makes Emma feel guilty about her own meager efforts in the kitchen. She can totally handle this and make something respectable if she just gets back in there and tries.

Unfortunately, that misplaced confidence, courtesy of cable television, can’t do much in the face of Emma’s blatant lack of skills. The prep goes fine, sure - it was a little tricky slicing the chicken breasts opens, but stuffing them with spinach and gorgonzola was easy enough to manage. And then just into the oven for a bit to cook. Simple.

But Emma’s never been great with patience. And _maybe_ , as long as she’s waiting for the chicken, she goes and gets her laptop to check her latest skip’s social media and _maybe_ she turns on the TV because it’s a day where they show just a whole bunch of Chopped episodes.

And maybe the only thing that pulls her out of her distraction is the sound of the damn smoke detector going off. _Shit_.

Emma rushes into the kitchen, and sure enough, there’s unmistakably black smoke trailing out of the oven. Smoke which is almost certainly coming from her chicken. _Shit shit shit_. There goes dinner.

The whole thing is sadly routine by this point: turn off the oven (or stove, sometimes), turn on the microwave fan, open the window. What’s less routine is to reach for the window and find a man already standing there on the fire escape, brandishing a fire extinguisher.

It startles her, it really does, but Emma also really needs to open that window. And honestly, anyone who shows up with a fire extinguisher probably doesn’t have dangerous intentions.

“Christ, you scared me,” she mutters when the window is finally raised high enough for him to duck his head in, but he seems more concerned about the smoke than about listening to her.

“Where’s the fire?” he brusquely demands. And that’s probably a reasonable question: man hears alarm, smells smoke, brings extinguisher, there must be a fire somewhere. But this whole situation has been happening awfully fast and Emma’s brain hasn’t quite caught up.

She’ll kick herself later, but in the moment, all she can think to say is a very eloquent “What?”

“There’s smoke, and your alarm is blaring. Is there a fire?” His tone is patient, but his eyes look exasperated and put upon. Somehow, it’s still a good look for him, frustratingly enough.

Emma chooses to blame the smoke for her slow reaction (not his very handsome face, no, not at all). It’s only a pointed raise of his eyebrow that gets her speaking, and Emma suspects the only reason he hasn’t just gone to investigate the problem himself is some weird ingrained sense of courtesy. Well, that and she’s blocking the window. “Oh! No fire, just… can’t cook. Burned some stuff.” The more she blabbers, the more his exasperation is replaced with amusement, and even if Emma is embarrassed, she has to admit - it’s a good look on him. “You’re still welcome to… come take a look, or whatever. Climb through the window. At least stop blocking the opening.”

He grins and raises an eyebrow as if to acknowledge how ridiculous she sounds, but clambers in over the window sill anyways, beelining for the oven. The chicken is unsalvageable, really, and Emma’s a bit embarrassed that anyone is even looking at its remains, but the strange man seems determined to make sure there’s not actually a fire. Upon viewing the smoldering mess, he seems satisfied (though God knows he’s the only one).

Turning back to Emma, he seems suddenly aware of the oddness of the entire situation, adopting a sheepish expression and moving to scratch behind his ear in what Emma imagines must be a nervous tic. “Errr… sorry to just barge in like this. Probably bad form, considering there wasn’t an actual fire.” He pulls his hand away from his ear just long enough to offer it to Emma instead. “Killian Jones. I’m your upstairs neighbor.”

So _this_ is the guy living above them. Emma doesn’t mean that in a bad way; she’s never had any issues with their mysterious neighbor, no bowling balls dropping in the middle of the night. Her only frame of reference is Elsa’s passing comment that the guy upstairs was cute - high praise from Miss Strictly Business.

(It’s one of the reasons Emma and Elsa get along so well as roommates - no significant others always hanging around.)

He _is_ cute, Emma decides - all dark hair and blue eyes and nice arms. If someone has to break in through her kitchen window, he’s not an awful choice. Speaking of, she should probably figure out how he ended up on her fire escape in the first place.

“Thanks for the help and all, but why did you come down in the first place?” she demands, arms crossed and ignoring his outstretched hand. The move visibly throws him for a loop, brows furrowed in confusion before he continues.

“Well, like I said, I live just above you,” he gestures, somewhat uselessly, “and I heard your alarm go off. And normally I might have just ignored it, but then I started smelling smoke… professional instincts just kicked in, I guess.” His smile is a weird combination of cocky and bashful, and Emma isn’t quite sure how to place it. “I’m a firefighter, my brother and I both are.”

Well, that makes a little more sense at least. Explains why he came so prepared. “Just… the fire escape? Really?”

This time, the embarrassment actually takes over as the tips of his ears turn red. “Err… yes. Well, at the time, it seemed more efficient, assuming there was an actual fire. Get straight to the problem.” He smiles sheepishly. “Seems a little silly in retrospect.”

So he’s not a crazy person or a home invader, just a well meaning neighbor whose instincts maybe overreacted. That’s more reasonable. Emma can work with that. Finally, she sticks her hand back out, to his evident surprise. “Emma Swan. Thanks for looking out for us, even if I didn’t actually need it this time.

“Pleasure.”

\------

Jones is kind enough to help clean up the mess Emma created, which is shocking for so many reasons - mostly because this kind of unasked-for assistance is not something Emma is entirely used to, but also because he really didn’t have anything to do with the mess. He’s under absolutely no obligation to stick around and help her scrape charred chicken off her pan because she is _not_ buying a new baking tin if she can help it.

“You really don’t have to do this,” she tries to tell him, but Jones just shrugs.

“I wasn’t doing much in my apartment anyways,” he says. “Plus, I just like to help out. It’s really not a bother.”

She doesn’t try to stop him after that. What’s the point? He’s got good pointers for getting rid of that smoke smell anyways.

Elsa gets home just as they’re finishing up, her nose wrinkling as soon as she walks in the door.

“Did you try to cook again, Emma?” she asks, resignation in her voice. “God, we’ve got to get rid of Food Network, if this is what happens. At least tell me -” she finally notices Killian. “Oh. Hello there.”

He nods, smiles. “Hello.”

Both parties are looking more and more confused, so Emma quickly makes introductions. “Jones, this is Elsa, my roommate. Elsa, this is Killian Jones, who lives upstairs.”

Elsa blushes as Killian crosses the room - a fact Emma carefully files away. “It must be my lucky day, to enjoy the company of not one, but _two_ beautiful ladies!” Elsa’s blush only deepens at his words, and the way he sketches a little half-bow over her hand. It’s charming, to be sure. It’s also _such_ a move that Emma rolls her eyes, finding no reason or obligation not to. After all, Jones already barged into her kitchen via the window; she doesn’t really owe him extra civilities, even if he was nice enough to help her clean up.

“Alright, that’s enough,” she grumbles, much to the amusement of both her roommate and her neighbor. “We’ll see you around, Jones?”

He smiles and nods, moving towards the door in a reluctant manner. “Aye, I’ll be around. Try not to set the kitchen on fire, yeah?”

“Will do.”

And with a final “Pleasure to meet you both,” he’s out the door.

As soon as they hear the stairwell door slam closed, Elsa turns back to Emma with a look in her eye that Emma’s not sure she likes.

“Oh, he’s cute, Emma!”

And yep, Emma _definitely_ doesn’t like that look, because it’s definitely a “let’s talk about _boys_ and _feelings_ ” look. Which Emma doesn’t do.

(Especially when she maybe agrees with Elsa.)

(Especially when she’d maybe be interested in making a move on that, if not for the fact that Elsa was interested first and Emma doesn’t poach men for a one-night-stand from her friends who would want a relationship. It wouldn’t be fair to him or her.)

Any response at all would only encourage this conversation, so Emma just rolls her eyes and walks back towards the kitchen. “Looks like we’re having takeout again. You want pizza or Indian?”

\------

Macaroni is, by all accounts, supposed to be easy.

Emma has accepted by this point that the stuffed chicken breasts were maybe a little bit of an ambitious starting point for someone who never cooks. But mac and cheese… she can already handle making noodles, so at the very least, that’s one less thing to worry about. Not to mention, a basic cheese sauce is like, five or six ingredients. She can handle this. Right? Right.

_Wrong_.

The noodles do actually go fine - these fun kind of corkscrew-looking things she decides she likes better than the basic macaroni noodles. And she’s actually able to handle mixing the butter and flour together, which Emma thought would be the stage to trip her up.

But she gets cocky. The milk has been combined with the roux, and everything’s just going so _well_ that Emma decides to try and make some garlic bread. Of course, that’s the moment everything falls apart. She has her back turned just a _moment_ too long before her attention is caught by a sudden hissing and sizzling, immediately accompanied by an acrid smell.

She boiled the milk over.

All that sudden, unexpected success is for nothing as Emma lunges to turn the stove off and move the pan. The only bright side is there’s not really a lot of smoke this time, so the alarms aren’t set off again. But the smell is bad enough as it is.

She’s still glaring at the stove, wondering how she’ll get scalded milk off the eye and thinking about just slapping some butter and cheese on the noodles when there’s a knock at the door. Stalking over to the peephole, Emma is surprised to see her upstairs neighbor waiting on the other side.

The door is barely open before she’s fixing him with a look. “What are you doing here?” she demands. It’s definitely not polite, but he’s got a way of seeing her at some of her more embarrassing moments, so honestly, he’ll just have to deal.

It doesn’t seem to put him off, at the very least. “I could smell something awful wafting up through the vents, and just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

Emma groans in response at the reminder of her latest culinary failure. “Yeah, I’m fine, still can’t cook.” She opens the door wider in invitation, wandering back towards the kitchen as he carefully closes the door. Entering the tiny kitchen right on her heels, he takes a knowledgeable glance at the mess of ingredients she’s assembled.

“Macaroni?”

Emma nods in response. “Yeah. Or at least it was going to be, before I let the milk boil over.”

Jones stares at the mess a moment longer in contemplation before nodding determinedly and shocking Emma with his next words.

“Well, that’s easy enough to fix.”

Honestly, the skeptical look she shoots him is thoroughly warranted, because it doesn’t look _easy enough to fix_ from where she’s standing, with ingredients strewn all over the counter and her half-prepared garlic bread and a truly optimistic amount of pasta.

“I’m serious!” he tells her, grinning at her skepticism. “Gather it all up, and follow me.”

Technically, it’s a better plan than any she might have come up with, even if it does end with them throwing everything into the garbage. At least it’s not just standing around and glowering at the disaster on her stove.

Jones is already moving to follow his own orders, sealing up containers and trying to find a grocery bag to carry everything in. He’s just hoisted up the pot of drained noodles when he finally notices that Emma’s just staring at him.

“You coming?” he asks, curiously and gently.

“What the hell,” she mutters to herself, and grabs the garlic bread, following him out into the hall.

\------

She’ll give Jones this much - he really does have a nice apartment. It’s the same layout as her own, but there’s a homey tidiness that her and Elsa’s place has never been able to achieve. There’s dark wood furniture with metal accents and a large steamer trunk for his coffee table, all surrounded by comfortable looking leather seating.

“Kitchen is this way, Swan,” he teases with a grin as he notices her still stopped in the middle of his living room. And in some sort of daze, she absentmindedly follows him.

The kitchen is nothing to sneeze at either. Clearly, one of the two brothers living here must enjoy cooking on some level, as Emma can see nice pots drying in the sink and a neatly organized spice rack. Somehow, even the kitchen has a vaguely masculine feel, with a ship in a bottle in the corner of the countertop and metal-finish baskets for fruit and mail and knick-knacks. It’s an odd contrast to all the either starkly sterile or obnoxiously feminine kitchens Emma is used to seeing, but she finds that she likes it all the same.

“You can put the pan right over there,” Killian is saying, snapping Emma suddenly back to the present. It’s easy enough to comply, and even easier to watch him bustle about the small room arranging things just how he wants them.

“Now Swan,” he scolds good-naturedly, “you’ve got to watch things when they’re on the stove. None of this wandering off you seem so fond of, at least not until you prove your skills a bit more. Stand there fiddling with your phone for all I care, but at least be in the room and turned in the direction of the burners, aye?”

“Aye, captain!” It earns her a faux glower, but she can tell he’s amused with the situation. And hey, who is she to argue with the man who’s about to finish making her dinner?

\------

It’s a lot easier to cook the macaroni and cheese when Jones is practically holding her hand every step of the way. He shows her exactly what to watch for when the recipe talks about the milk thickening, and supervises the whole production, making sure they don’t have any more burning components.

(She _does_ take credit for picking the recipe, because it is damn delicious with its thick, gooey sauce on the bottom and extra cheese sprinkled over the top.)

Even if Jones did a lot of the work, there’s a certain sense of accomplishment Emma feels, sitting on his couch with a heaping serving of their final product. In a wonderful fluke, _The Princess Bride_ is on TV, and Emma had refused to let him continue flipping through the channels when they had already found a veritable masterpiece.

Sure, they haven’t known each other for long, and maybe Emma should be more cautious before following practical strangers home to cook for her, but there’s already a sense of comfort and comradery between she and Killian, so she’s more inclined to trust her gut. In any case, he’s perfect gentleman; there’s a bit of light flirting on his part, but that seems to be more a reflex than anything else, so Emma doesn’t pay too much attention to it. He even washes the pot and walks her back to her own apartment, hands full of leftovers.

Emma Swan isn’t entirely sure what just happened, but she’s be willing to do it again in an attempt to find out. For science. And her stomach.

\------

It’s with more than mild disappointment that Emma doesn’t hear from her hot upstairs neighbor for a week and a half. Not that she wants to see him because he’s hot; that’s just a nice added bonus. But it’s a light work week, Emma easily tracking down and apprehending her skip, and she’s _bored_. Jones’ presence would be more than welcome; Emma almost considers trying cooking and burning something again to get him to show up at her door.

It doesn’t come to that, thankfully. Emma’s about to put on her shoes and go for a run, just to try and work out some of her excess energy, when she hears the knock. Opening the door, she finds Jones standing on the mat, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet and grinning like a madman.

“What’s up with you?” Emma asks with a skeptical bite in her voice.

“What’s up with me?” he repeats, smirking. “I’ve only discovered a recipe I think even you can handle.”

“Watch it,” she warns. “For all you know, I was just having a rough day.”

The smirk only broadens. “I’ve only got negative evidence at my disposal, darling. Care to come prove me wrong?’

He probably knows she can’t turn down a challenge, the bastard, because Emma follows him readily, committed to proving him wrong. Never mind the fact that he’s actually right, and she can’t cook to save her life.

Still, he looks at her with obvious shock when she actually steps outside her apartment and closes the door behind her, fixing him with an expectant look. It’s like he didn’t expect her to actually agree or something.

“Well?” she demands, “What are you waiting for? Lead on, Jones.”

That seems to snap him out of his daze, and he attempts a roguish smirk Emma sees through immediately. “Well, if the lady insists.”

\------

“ _Popcorn_?”

Emma is certain her expression must be the dictionary definition of incredulous as she responds to Jones’ grand plan, because it’s almost insulting.

“I know how to put the little bag in the microwave, Jones. I’m bad at cooking, not stupid.”

Killian rolls his eyes in that way that Emma is learning means he’s exasperated, but not truly pissed off, his arms crossed casually over his chest. “I know that, Swan. That’s why we’re going to make it in a pot, by ourselves, from the kernel.

Oh. Well, that makes a bit more sense. Emma’s never really bothered learning how to make popcorn on her own, since the PopSecret bags are so much more convenient. Plus, she’s finally figured out exactly how long to microwave the bag so nothing burns; the learning curve has never seemed worth it to figure out how to make popcorn in the pot herself. But Killian seems so _excited_ to have figured out something she can try, it seems cruel to tell him no at this point.

The whole affair is actually simpler than Emma anticipated; put oil in the pan, heat until a few tester kernels pop, and then add the rest. Simple. So simple, in fact, that Jones actually has Emma do the majority of the work with his supervision, only intervening when it looks like she’s about to pour way too much oil into the pan and showing her how to shake the pot to encourage the kernels not to stick.

Shockingly, Emma’s efforts are actually successful. That’s not all Jones has in mind, however.

“Today, my dear Swan,” he announces, depositing several spice containers in front of her, as well as some grated cheese and butter, “I’m going to teach you how to doctor up the best popcorn ever. I swear, love, this will change your life.”

Emma’s a little skeptical, considering the ingredients he’s given her - parmesan, dried parsley, cajun seasoning, garlic powder, salt, and butter - but he’s running the show here, so she reaches to unwrap the butter for melting.

When all is said and done, she kind of hates to admit it, but Jones is right - this concoction is damn delicious (even if he thinks she added too much spice). Even better, it’s probably something she can handle making on her own at home, since the entire process is quick enough that she probably won’t get distracted in the middle.

She sticks around afterwards for a movie - Killian had apparently borrowed _The Italian Job_ from a friend, and damn if Emma isn’t a sucker for improbable plots involving Mini Coopers - and it’s all nice. The _what-the-fuck-is-going-on_ factor from their previous encounters has fallen away into something she thinks might be friendship, and it’s a relief, really. Emma really likes being able to define what the fuck these interactions actually are. So she tucks her feet under his thigh just that little bit further and ignores his put-upon huff and grabs for more popcorn.

Really, she could get used to this.

\------

Their pattern of cooking lessons and movies becomes routine.

If Emma has a day off and feels like trying her hand in the kitchen, she’ll see if Killian is home and wants to supervise. She doesn’t know if Killian actually has a bunch of tasty beginner recipes on hand or if he’s looking them up online, but regardless, he’s taken to showing up at Emma’s door periodically to see if she’s busy or would like to try another go at cooking.

She’s actually semi-successful at making things when Killian’s the one patiently helping her - though part of that may be the fact that he does at least half of the cooking himself. Emma has gotten _famously_ good at wheedling her way out of some of the more tedious or difficult tasks.

They always watch a movie with their meal - usually cheesy action movies or anything with obnoxious over-acting, but occasionally a comedy or an old classic. The two have a mutual love of mocking bad movies, as it turns out, and Emma routinely ends up in stitches over his awful impersonations.

And it should be fine. They’re _friends_ , friends who cook together and watch movies together and do not at all have tender feelings for one another.

Except that’s not true.

Because over the last weeks and months, Emma’s noticed a change in her reactions to Killian. First is the butterflies when he shows up at her door, but she writes that off as nerves about the prospect of cooking. Then it’s the new urge to spend the majority of her free time in his company. Then the way she finds herself thinking about him at the oddest of times and all hours of the day. Then the way her other friends comment on how much time she and Killian are spending together, and how often she mentions him. And then, and then, and then… and without warning, it just strikes her one day as they eat cake on the couch:

Emma _totally_ has a crush on Killian Jones. A big one.

Shit.

\------

Walking through the door with purpose, Emma throws herself onto one of the stools at Granny’s counter in front of Ruby and collapses her head onto her folded arms. “I’m the worst friend _ever_ ,” she groans.

It’s probably a bad sign that Ruby is used to this kind of thing. Then again, Ruby has been the person Emma runs to about relationships of all sorts since that time in the 10th grade she had that ill-advised crush on Robbie Preston. Ruby may prefer to fuck her way through the greater Boston area over any attempts at monogamy, but she’s better at understanding all the subtleties and unwritten rules of engaging in a relationship than anyone else Emma knows.

“I’m sure _that’s_ not true,” Ruby is saying, drawing Emma back out of her thoughts. “What’d you do, kill her fish or something?”

Ruby’s smiling like she’s hilarious, but Emma is less amused, and shoots the brunette a sharp look.

Ruby in return holds up a calming hand. “Fine, we’re past the point of humor, I see. Why are you such an awful person? Or no, wait, it was ‘worst friend ever’, wasn’t it?”

Emma still fixes Ruby with a baleful glare. “Your sarcasm is not appreciated.”

Ruby just grins cheerfully, prancing around the edge of the counter to deliver Emma’s grilled cheese and settle herself on the adjacent stool. “I know. You love it, though. Now spill.”

Emma sighs in defeat, worn down by her friend’s attitude and insistence. “You know Killian, the neighbor I’ve been hanging out with?”

Ruby grins, one small step short of lecherously. “The one you drunkenly described as “deserving his own fireman calendar?” Yeah, I remember you talking about him. What’s he got to do with it?”

“Elsa has a crush on him.”

Ruby nods sagely. “Alright. Do you need tips on how to set them up or something? Believe you me, I’ve got _tactics_.”

“No, I don’t need to ‘set them up’, jeez Ruby. It’s just…” Emma falls silent, struggling to put together the words to express her dilemma.

Thankfully, her silence seems to tell Ruby everything she needs to know. “ _Ohhh_ ,” she exhales knowingly. “You’ve got a thing for him too, don’t you?”

Emma groans again, nearly dropping her head back to the counter before spotting Granny’s disapproving look out of the corner of her eye. “Yes,” she mumbles reluctantly. “But Elsa likes him, and I’m not going to be the friend who stands in the way of another friend’s relationship.”

Ruby hums contemplatively. “And you’re sure Elsa has a crush on Killian.”

Emma nods. “She mentioned thinking the upstairs neighbor was really cute, and then got all blushy when I introduced them that first time.”

“Well, I guess it depends on how serious you and she are about this. Do you think this is a passing thing for either of you? Honestly, you should probably just talk to Elsa instead of trying to play feelings detective, figuring out how people feel based on tiny clues.” She stands up to get back to work, Granny’s pointed throat clearings finally having their intended effect, but doesn’t leave without a few final words. “Look Emma, I know that’s probably not the advice you wanted, but it’s the best advice I’ve got. Take it or leave it.”

_Double shit._

\------

Emma does not take Ruby’s advice. Instead, she just sucks it up and deals with her feelings over the next month. It’s not a perfect solution; in fact, it’s the very definition of imperfect, almost unworkable, but that’s what Emma’s willing to do for the moment.

There’s still moments where her ever growing feelings slip through, no matter what effort she makes to suppress them: the way he’s so patient with her during their continued informal cooking lessons, how he rolls his eyes good-naturedly when she tries to get stubborn with him about movies, that little bit of hair on the back of head that resists all attempts at taming or slicking flat.

In short, she’s screwed, and desperately trying not to rock the boat and upset the status quo.

\------

The entire situation shifts suddenly, and when Emma least expects it.

It’s by all accounts a normal day. Killian invites her over for a late lunch when she finally drags herself out of bed after a late-night stakeout, and tries to teach her to make breaded fish sandwiches he swears are easy.

(Emma argues that anything requiring a broiler, whatever the hell that is, is by definition _not easy_ . There’s also a sauce for it with, like, twelve different ingredients added willy-nilly until the consistency is right which is, again, _not easy_ in Emma’s book. The final product is pretty tasty, though.)

And they’re just sitting on the couch, watching _Monty Fucking Python_ because Killian just loves _Holy Grail_ for whatever reason. He’s trying to defend his opinion that it’s the greatest comedy ever, rolling his eyes in that somehow amused and endearing way he does when Emma only laughs at his arguments. And it _should_ just be a normal afternoon, just Killian and Emma hanging out like they always do, but the afternoon suddenly becomes very much _not_ normal when Killian leans over and _kisses_ her.

It’s a gentle thing, the kiss; all uncertainty and careful moves. But it’s beautiful in its own way, and as Killian attempts to move away, Emma chases after him, drawing him back into the back-and-forth of their kiss. Even as the exchange deepens, there’s still a gentleness to the way their lips meet and mouths open and tongues explore that is unexpected. The man is obviously sex on legs; Emma always imagined any first kiss they shared to be passionate, almost aggressive. But there’s an unexpected appeal to the way their lips tenderly caress, a comfort that inexplicably feels like _home_.

There’s several seconds - hell, probably several _minutes_ \- where Emma allows herself to surrender to the kiss, thoughts of everything beyond Killian’s couch far from her mind. But as Killian tries to shift that tiniest bit closer, Emma is abruptly thrown back into reality.

What the hell is she _doing_ ? This is _exactly_ what she had hoped to avoid. Regardless of Emma’s feelings, and what an excellent kisser Killian has turned out to be, he’s still the guy her roommate likes. And Emma is still a good friend.

With those thoughts running through her mind, Emma jerks back from Killian like she’s been burned, meeting his confused expression with wide-eyed panic.

“Did I do something, love? I’m sorry if I pressured or hurt you somehow -” he begins concernedly, reaching a calming hand across their sudden divide, but Emma springs off the couch and interrupts before he can finish his thought.

“No no, that was great I just… I gotta go. I can’t. I gotta go.”

And she books it out of his apartment, probably breaking land speed records in the process.

\------

If there’s one thing that can be said about Emma Swan, it’s that she’s an excellent avoider of emotionally fraught situations.

She’s not doing it on purpose this time, though. Well, avoiding Killian is on purpose. Emma doesn’t want to talk about the kiss, and she _definitely_ doesn’t want a repeat.

( _Oh yes you do,_ whispers the traitorous little voice in her mind, but that voice is definitely wrong, because Emma just wants to not get in the way of her roommate’s crush.)

The avoiding Elsa isn’t intentional, however. They just haven’t run into each other is all - Emma got a lead on the skip she was trailing, resulting in weird hours, and they just haven’t seen each other in the days following the kiss. She needs to do it, _has_ to do it, has the words picked out and everything. But even all that planning doesn’t stop her from blurting out a less-than-tactful “I kissed him!” when she walks in after four days to see Elsa sitting cross-legged on the couch.

Of course, without context, that statement doesn’t mean much of anything, Elsa’s confused look proof positive of that fact. “That’s… ok?” she stutters out confusedly. “Wait, who’d you kiss?”

Emma plops down on the couch, trying to brace herself for the conversation to come. “Killian.”

“Killian? You kissed Killian?”

“I kissed Killian. I mean, and then I ran like there were demons chasing me, but _I kissed Killian_ , and oh my God Elsa, I’m so sorry, I didn’t plan it or anything -”

Elsa quickly cuts her off with a hand gesture. “Wait, what? Why do you need to apologize?”

To her credit, she does look genuinely confused. “Well, because you have a thing for Killian.”

The confusion only deepens, Elsa’s brow furrowing as she replies. “I don’t have a thing for Killian. Why would I have a thing for Killian?”

“Well you said so!” She did say so, right? Emma hasn’t been making a big deal of this for nothing, right?

“Ok, well, I’m not sure when I would have said that, since it’s _not true_.” Elsa makes very sure to emphasize the last two words, like Emma’s back in grade school and needs reminders of the simplest concepts. It makes Emma a little defensive, which probably isn’t her best move, but whatever. It’s her tactic of choice.

“Yes, you definitely told me! Earlier in the year, you told me the guy upstairs was cute!”

It’s only when Elsa snorts out a laugh that it really sinks in for Emma that _oh shit, she may have been wrong and worked herself up over nothing_. “Oh, the guy upstairs is cute, but I didn’t mean Killian. You know that brother he’s always mentioning?”

“Liam? I mean, we’ve never met, but yeah, why do you ask?”

Elsa just fixes her with a look - a _think this through, you idiot_ look - before it finally clicks in Emma’s head.

_Oh_.

“Fuck,” Emma mutters. “You mean I’ve been worrying about all this for nothing?”

Elsa throws her a sympathetic smile. “Yeah, kind of. But the good news is if you go upstairs and fix things with Killian, you can maybe get back to the kissing part and forget that the running part ever happened.”

The words are a little superfluous, since Emma is already standing up to move towards the door as soon as Elsa starts to answer.

\------

As if to add insult to injury, the man who answers the door - tall and brawny and just a little rough around the edges, the kind of proto-mountain man that Miss State Prosecutor can’t resist. And of course, he’s entirely unamused by her presence.

“Can I help you?” he asks in a bored voice. God, why couldn’t _her_ Jones answer the door?

“Yeah, is Killian home?”

Liam actually rolls his eyes, the sanctimonious bastard. It’s very reminiscent of the same thing Killian does when he thinks she’s being ridiculous, but without any of the amusement, and way more of the irritation. “You’re Emma, I take it?” he asks, stepping back to let her step through the door. There’s that, at least.

“Yeah,” she mutters back absentmindedly, more focused on trying to locate Killian. It’s not that big of an apartment; there’s only so many places he could be.

Sure enough, it only takes a moment to find him, walking out of what she assumes is his bedroom, all bare feet and mussed hair. Even now, not at his best, sporting dark, tired circles under his eyes, he’s unfairly attractive.

He catches her eye mid-stretch, and she can see his entire body freeze in anticipation and anxiety before releasing. “Swan? What are you doing here?”

Emma flashes a small smile at him, hoping to set him at ease even just a little bit. “I was hoping we could talk?”

He nods, seemingly in resignation (and God, what she wouldn’t give to know what he’s thinking right now), moving to collapse on the couch. Emma does the same, and is all ready to launch into her explanations, when she notices the elder Jones still standing by the door, arms crossed. It’s like he thinks he’s some sort of guard dog, or something equally stupid.

“Would you mind, Liam?” Killian asks brusquely as he notices the source of her distraction and hesitance.

Liam does leave, but it’s reluctantly, and with a look Emma can only interpret as a warning.

With their audience finally gone, Killian turns back to Emma with a expectant, if nervous, look on his face. It’s the moment of truth, and Emma still has no idea what she needs to say. They stare at one another in awkward silence for several moments before Killian finally breaks the quiet.

“Look Emma, I’m sorry if I overstepped the other night, I don’t know what I was thinking, but I can promise you, it won’t happen again -”

Emma snaps her head back to meet his eyes at that, suddenly entirely engaged. “What? No! I mean, unless you don’t want to, but trust me, I’d be fine for it to happen again.”

It’s clearly not what he was expecting her to say, his face again wearing that confused look she finds so cute. “But… you ran,” he says, brow furrowed, head cocked, everything about his body language baffled. “I mean, it’s not exactly a good omen, let alone a ringing endorsement of one’s kissing, so I just figured…”

“No,” Emma says firmly. “In fact, I should be the one apologizing to you, really. I thought I was doing a good thing, and didn’t mean to hurt you, I just -” Emma sighs, resting her face in her hands for a moment before looking back at Killian sheepishly. “It’s incredibly stupid, really. You’re going to laugh.”

“I promise I won’t, love.” He looks at her with such affection, amusement, and trust, that it’s suddenly far easier to speak than it was before. So with a final deep breath and assumption of a more confident pose, she dives right in.

“I thought Elsa had a crush on you.”

She can practically see his ego inflate as that single eyebrow rises, but at least it’s better than the mild dejection he was showing at the beginning of this conversation. “Well, I _am_ devilishly handsome, love, but I fail to see what that has to do with anything.”

Emma rolls her eyes, but continues with her explanation. “No, you see, I thought Elsa had a crush on you, and she deserves all kinds of nice things, so even when _I_ started to have feelings for you, I ignored them so that I wouldn’t get in the way of her chances. So when we kissed, even though it was great and I’d definitely be up for a repeat, I ran, because I didn’t want to get in her way. But it was a whole misunderstanding, and apparently the upstairs neighbor she thinks is cute is your _brother_ , so I came up here to try and fix things, if you want to fix them -”

She’d probably keep rambling for a lot longer, but suddenly his lips are on hers, a hand at her waist to pull her closer, and really, there are a lot more important things than long, drawn out explanations - namely, the way Killian’s mouth is meeting her own like he wants to devour her.

(There’s a passing thought about fitting metaphors, considering how this whole mess started with Emma’s terrible cooking, but then Killian is nipping at her lip and maneuvering her fully into his lap, and God, the time for contemplation of literary devices is _so_ not now.)

It’s a while before the conversation is resumed, Emma sprawled all over Killian’s body after a fabulous make-out session (“Love, we’ve got to stop before Liam knows more about my love life than he ever should.”), when she feels Killian’s chest shake with a low chuckle. Looking up, it’s easy to see his amused smile, and she shoots him a questioning look.

“You thought Elsa had a thing for me? I know I’m easy on the eyes, love, but we’ve met all of twice.”

“Shut up,” Emma mumbles into his chest, but there’s really no bite to it, Emma far too content with her current situation to genuinely complain.

\------

Emma never really gives up the Food Network; after any exposure at all, that ship had already sailed, and there’s no coming back from this particular addiction.

However, attempts at cooking do drop considerably, as do her late night binges. After all, when she’s got a smoking hot firefighter who cooks and can lure her back to exhaustion in much more satisfying ways in the middle of the night, why would she do anything differently?

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading - I hope you liked it! I love getting kudos, comments, and feedback, so don't be shy.
> 
> Many thanks to @awkwardnessandbaseball, who suffered through my terrible pirate puns and personal opinions about the Food Network and still liked it. You're a gem, darling.
> 
> This has also been posted on Tumblr - I'm @shireness-says. Come say hi.


End file.
